Christina Henry - Black Night

Much gratitude is due to Danielle Stockley, editor extraordinaire, who not only helped make Black Night a better book but patiently answered all my crazy questions. I could not do this without you, Danielle!

Lots of thanks to my publicist, Rosanne Romanello, for her dedication and hard work on behalf of the world of Black Wings.

Thanks to Kris Keller for his amazing cover art.

A very big thank-you to Nancy Holzner for her generous support and guidance. You rock, Nancy!

A special shout-out to Dimo, Cynthia and the rest of the crew at Einsteins on Southport, who kept me in bagels and coffee while I wrote this book.

Many thanks to Sarah Kaiser, my study buddy, who listened to all my crazy ideas and thought they sounded great even if they made no sense.

Finally, I could not do this without the love and support of my husband, Chris, and son, Henry. I am so grateful for both of you every day.

I STOOD IN THE ALLEY BETWEEN DAMEN AND WOLCOTT in the recently trendy neighborhood of Wicker Park. There was a parking lot filled with cars directly across the alley from my position. It was bordered on the other three sides by four-story apartment buildings. Behind the wall that I leaned on, the clubs, bars and restaurants of Division Street did a brisk trade in liquor and lust for the upscale singles who had purchased all the new condos in the area. The cold November night was no deterrent to business. After all, if you lived in Chicago, then you understood that there are only two seasonswinter and construction. If you let a little cold slow you down, then you should probably move somewhere else.

I shifted a little, flexing my toes inside my boots in a vain effort to keep them warm. When I had died and been reborn a month ago, my human heart had been replaced by an angels heartstone. As a result, I was usually a little warmer than ordinary human beings, since angels hearts are made of the sun. But a half angels body is still no match for the Windy City.

My gargoyle, Beezle, poked his head out of the lapel of my wool peacoat. Hes the color of stone, about the size of an overweight guinea pig, and hes got little wings, the better to flap around my head and annoy me with.

Before we had left the house he had trimmed a childsized scarf for his own use. He had a small strip of rainbowcolored wool wrapped around each horn and a longer piece wound several times around his lower face. The edge of his beak poked through the material. He mumbled something through the cloth and I glared at him.

I cant understand you when your mouth is buried like that, I said.

Beezle narrowed his cat eyes at me and commenced unwinding his muffler. He huffed melodramatically before speaking. I said, have you got anything to eat?

How can you possibly be hungry? You ate a whole bowl of popcorn before we left the house.

But I am. And Im cold. And I want a doughnut, he whined.

Stop wriggling. Were supposed to be undercover here. In point of fact, youre not supposed to be here at all. Youre supposed to be at home, being a home guardian, like all the other gargoyles.

Do you think I would trust your life to him? Beezle snapped.

He can hear you, gargoyle, Gabriel said dryly.

My tenant and bodyguard, Gabriel, had been so quiet Id almost forgotten he was there. Almost. Hes a little difficult to overlooksix foot plus, dark hair, dark eyes, the face of an angel. I mean that literally. Gabriel was half-angel.

Have I mentioned that I am in love with him and he with me, and that our love is doomed, in a really melodramatic we-will-both-be-killed-if-we-ever-act-on-our-feelings sort of way?

Im a half angel, too. My father is Azazel, a fallen angel and a chief of the Grigori, a right-hand man of Lucifer himself. Id discovered this tidbit only recently, having spent most of my life believing my father to be an ordinary deadbeat (or possibly dead) human dad.

Beezle had been a little unreasonable about my safety ever since Id had my human heart torn out by a nephilimlong storyand now refused to let me leave the house without him. Youd think the fact that Id managed to come back from the dead would count in my favor.

Azazels orders stated that Gabriel was not supposed to leave my side when I was out of the house. I had spent the last month with a beautiful bodyguard at my elbow and an overweight gargoyle hanging off me like a baby orangutan. It was making my job a little difficultvery difficult, in fact. Its not easy being unobtrusive with those two around.

When Im not Azazels daughter and Beezles doughnut enabler, Im an Agent of death. Its not as glamorous as it sounds. Every week I get a list of names, places and times. I go to the appointed place at the appointed time, pick up the soul and bring it to the Door. At the Door the soul chooses whether to pass on to whatever is behind the Door (dont ask me; Im not allowed to know) or to stay and haunt the earth forever.

Most of the time my job is as straightforward as it sounds. Im kind of like a UPS delivery guy. I dont know whats in the boxes and I dont care. Its just my job to deliver them on time and to the correct location. I also have to file paperworklots and lots of paperwork, and the forms are annoying and redundant. Being an Agent of death isnt such a great gig, really, but its an inherited job (I got mine when my mom died) and one that doesnt go away until you take the trip to the Door yourself.

So there I was, a week before Thanksgiving, shivering in thirty-degree weather and thinking longingly of my crocheted blankets and a cup of hot chocolate, waiting to pick up a soul who was scheduled to die at 1:27 A.M. somewhere in this alley.

Beezle carefully rewrapped his scarf around his chubby neck. It draped over his wings in the back.

I hope that this isnt one of those disgusting alley murders, he said conversationally. The last one put me off my feed.

Is that even possible? Gabriel murmured for my ears only, and I smiled. Then I straightened a little, pushing away from the wall. Gabriel came to attention beside me. What is it?

I dont think you have to worry about hacked-up body parts this time, Beezle, I said.

Why not?

Because I can see the vampire. I nodded at the innocuous-looking man making his way across the parking lot.

He looked like any moderately successful single guy out on a Saturday night. His hair was blond and stylishly cut, his clothes were good without being flashy, and his face was sort of ordinary-handsome. You wouldnt know he was a vampire, which is good for their kind. The most successful hunters are the ones with the best camouflage.

He crossed out of the lot and into the alley, his footsteps slowing as he approached us. We were tucked unobtrusively in a little four-foot depression in the building, one of those architectural oddities that seem to have no explanation. The building went straight across and then it dipped in, like someone had planned to put a closet there, and then resumed its normal course. It was just enough to keep us from being seen by anyone who passed by.

The vampire stopped dead, a few feet away. I saw his nostrils flare.

I know youre there, Agent, he said.

I stepped out of the depression and into the light of the one yellow streetlamp that hung over the parking lot. Gabriel followed and stood behind my shoulder. I said nothing. The vampires eyes widened a little when he saw Gabriel.

He smirked. You must be the famous Madeline Black, the only Agent with a guard dog.

If the vampire thought he could make a little sport for himself by getting a rise out of Gabriel, he had another think coming. Gabriel is the type that burns slowso slow, I wonder sometimes if hes got a pulse.